


love’s not the way to treat a friend

by stealer (girltalk)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girltalk/pseuds/stealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s really nothing quite as revelatory as the silent minutes spent in bed during the aftermath of a wet dream involving you and your high-school best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love’s not the way to treat a friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pancakewars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakewars/gifts).



> a very happy (late because it's me) birthday to my favourite person rei ♥
> 
> thank you so much to [kaiosea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiosea/pseuds/Kaiosea) for beta-ing and listening to all of my whining for the better part of october. and [alice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kierenwalkers/profile) whose advice to start writing this early i dutifully ignored, but who encouraged me all the same and served as my reliable haikyuupedia.
> 
> disclaimer: the most minimum research possible was done about volleyball injuries, so... lots of liberties taken /o\

The first thing Kenma notices is Kuro’s hair. 

It’s exactly the same. Still the coarse, effortlessly spiked bedhead that he’d been stuck with since the first day Kenma met him. Kenma feels the same way he had that day too — like Kuro’s thrown a ball into his chest and sent Kenma sprawling on the concrete. Twenty-two-year-old Kuro is wearing the same smile nine-year-old Kuro did, guilty and sheepish, but a little too on the side of curious for Kenma to be comfortable. 

“Kenma,” Kuro says, pushing himself off the wall. Kenma hasn’t been on the court in _years_ , but he watches Kuro’s movements as if he’s on the other side of the net and they’re on their last set. Kenma steps back just as Kuro stops. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“You’re as good as one,” Kenma murmurs, cheeks warming up when Kuro bends forward to smirk at him. Kenma swallows and hunches his shoulders when Kuro extends an arm to rest on the door behind him. This isn’t the Kuro he knows. It looks like him, it sounds like him — but it doesn’t feel like him. Definitely not. Not the flat, defined shape of his abs Kenma can feel when he rests a palm against Kuro’s stomach. Not the lips that brush against his ears as Kuro whispers, husky and sultry, “Your crush on Lev is so cute.” 

And _what_. 

 

 

 

Kuro doesn’t hug him when Kenma opens the door for him the next morning. Instead he smiles, lazy but big, and ruffles his hair. “Thanks for inviting me to your and Lev’s love pad,” he says. “I love what you two have done with the place.” 

“That joke is less funny in real life than it is over text,” Kenma mumbles, shooting Kuro a half-felt glare and fixing his hair.

There’s really nothing quite as revelatory as the silent minutes spent in bed during the aftermath of a wet dream involving you and your high-school best friend. Kenma is fairly self-aware so a realisation like that — well, it required some intense recalibration of his worldview. Something Kenma didn’t really have the time for that morning when Kuro was due to arrive in less than an hour. So he’d hastily put the thoughts (and his damp boxers) aside, and went about trying to make the house presentable. Namely, shutting the door to Lev’s room so Kuro couldn’t see inside it. 

That’s right. Kenma was living with Haiba Lev. How it happened was a series of increasingly unfortunate events, that began with Kenma’s old roommates being the manifestation of everything Kenma considered anxiety-inducing about humanity, and Lev apparently being heir to a large Russian Chain Store that sold ugg boots. Lev had felt lonely in the huge three-bedroom apartment his Mum had bought him as a graduation present; Kenma had felt on the edge of a nervous breakdown living with two roommates who only gave him quiet when they were black-out drunk; and the problem solved itself. Lev had given a pair of ugg boots to Kenma as a moving-in gift and— honestly, if Lev was a boot, he’d be an ugg boot, is how Kenma feels about them. 

“Why are you looking at my shoes,” Kuro asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Kenma sighs and shakes his head. “Come in,” he says. “I hope you aren’t hungry, I usually eat out so we don’t really have… food.” 

Kuro doesn’t seem to mind. He shrugs and takes off his shoes, walking towards the kitchen. Kenma’s eyes go straight to the bandage around Kuro’s knee. He wasn’t very concerned with the fact he was a fairly shitty host before, but now he’s annoyed at Kuro for _knowing_ what a shitty host a combination of Kenma and Lev would be, but going to them first anyway.

Kenma wasn’t lying, they don’t really have food. Not even a box of cereal. There’s no demand for it, Kenma never feels hungry, and Lev’s on a new diet Yaku had introduced to him where you eat nothing but Baby Food. It’s meant to assure your body absorbs only the most _vital_ vitamins and minerals, cutting out any superfluous junk. Kenma watches Lev measure the circumference of his biceps every evening and thinks Yaku can be a pretty cruel guy. 

Also a pretty inconvenient guy. Kenma looks at the cupboard lined with jars of puree and groans.

“Hey do you wanna just eat out—”

Kuro steps behind him. He’s not even that close, Kuro’s learnt to be good about that. But suddenly the space between their bodies feels more tangible than the brush of Kuro’s arm against his ear as he leans over to grab a jar from the cupboard.

“Baby food?” Kuro says, lightly amused. 

Kenma ducks his head. “It’s Lev’s dumb idea.” 

It’s easy. It’s familiar. It’s been four years and—

Kuro laughs, and Kenma can imagine his face looking exactly like it had in his dream. “I accept everything about you Kenma,” he says. Kenma’s stomach stirs, like someone’s wringing his intestines. “Do you let Lev call you Dadd—”

Kenma slips out of the small space between Kuro and the kitchen counter. “I’m going to go get breakfast,” he says monotonously, grabbing his hoodie from the couch. “And then vomit it out again.” He’s not even sure if it’s a joke. 

Kuro grins, and Kenma fights through the nausea to smile back. 

It’s not the same at all. 

 

 

 

As far as friendships go, Kuro and Kenma’s isn’t very interesting. You’d think a meet-cute involving Kuro ramming a ball into Kenma would foreshadow a rocky path, but that’s not the case at all. Kuro was the 9-year-old boy who asked Kenma if he was okay, didn’t believe him when he said he was, called his mum to apply first aid, and then after letting Kenma have one of his doraemon band-aids, asked him if he wanted to play. 

It wasn’t that Kuro left him alone when he wanted to be alone, or understood that he didn’t want to be bothered. No, that’d be too ideal for the world Kenma was living in. To get it, you’d have to go back to Kenma’s years playing High School Volleyball, where he’d loiter a little too long on the court after games, and hear opponents commiserate amongst themselves: _”That number 1. He just really knows how to push the right buttons, doesn’t he?”_ Because that was _exactly_ it. 

Kuro would be the one to push Kenma out of a plane that was flying four thousand metres in the air. And even though Kenma’s stomach would drop with every new thing Kuro would coerce him into, every new friend he’d nudge Kenma to make, somehow Kenma would always land on his feet, with Kuro at his back like a parachute. Letting him know he never had a real chance of plummeting to his death unless he cut the strings himself. 

 

 

 

Kenma takes Kuro out for breakfast and it’s the kind of unassuming, laid-back companionship with Kuro he’s used to. So easy and comfortable that the morning feels like a delusion, something Kenma would easily write off as an extension of his dream if not for the fact he finds his eyes catching onto the small things Kuro does — things Kenma’s noticed before, but never really thought about. Like the way Kuro tilts his neck back when he’s exasperated, how the corner of his lips twitches when Kenma says something that’s only amusing to him. He takes these little things and holds it up to the Kuro he has imprinted in his memories, just to see if they compare. 

Kuro does most of the talking, tells Kenma about his teammates back in Osaka, how he’d only been just recently promoted to Captain. He tells him about places he thinks Kenma would like to see. Kenma’s never been to Osaka before. It just didn’t work out well, Kenma’s breaks collided with Kuro’s matches, and Kuro’s rare time off was always during Kenma’s final exams. Kuro had come to Tokyo a fair number of times for tournaments, but he never stayed longer than his team did, and Kenma had to share Kuro’s free time with the other ex-players for Nekoma who still lived in Tokyo. 

It’s when Kenma goes to pay for both of them at the counter, that the churning in his gut comes back. He can feel Kuro’s eyes on him, which in itself isn’t anything unusual, not relatively at least. Some people like star gazing, Kuro likes Kenma watching. Back in middle school he’d compared it to watching a cat being happily stuck in a tree, but having to deal with a bunch of dogs at the trunk trying to save it, which isn’t entirely untrue. But when he turns around, Kuro’s eyes quickly flick up, like he hadn’t meant for Kenma to catch him and Kenma just… He can’t fault Kuro for anything, when Kenma was the one who had the sex dream this morning. But Kuro is Kuro and Kenma... Kenma doesn’t like being noticed. 

“I think Lev is up now,” Kenma says, feeling irrationally miffed as they make their way to the car. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “He’ll be upset that he didn’t get to see you first thing so just…” 

Kuro waves him off. “Don’t worry, got it. I’ll make the biggest deal out of it. Tell him how disappointed I am and everything.” 

Something bubbles within Kenma, airy and buoyant. It pours itself out of his mouth in a small laugh that catches him off-guard. “Thanks.” 

 

 

 

Kenma has carefully avoided addressing the real reason Kuro’s here. They’re going to have to talk about it at some point, but he knows that right now Kuro wants to pretend this trip is all about catching up with old friends and taking a well deserved break. And so, the only acknowledgement the tightly wrapped bandage around Kuro’s knee gets is the bag of frozen vegetables Kenma hands to Kuro once they’re back at the apartment. To make sure everyone else got the memo, Kai had sent around an email to the old Nekoma team still in Tokyo with the subject **things to remember about kuroo (especially you lev) (actually this email is really only for lev)**. Lev had been indignant, like he would ever do _anything_ to let Kuroo-san down. Lev is always wrong. 

“Kuroo-san!” Lev exclaims when he finally emerges from his room. “It’s so good to see you again! How’s your knee— I mean your knee is fine. We aren’t talking about your knee. I don’t even have a knee.” 

“Amazing,” Kenma marvels, dropping his PSP to his lap and staring up at the ceiling.

Kuro turns around from his place on the couch. “Lev,” he states flatly. “I _kneed_ you to shut up.” 

Lev blinks, like he’s waiting for Kuro to make him do a hundred flying-fish around the living room. When it doesn’t come, he cracks up laughing, gangly arm coming down to slap the wall next to him. “NICE!”

“Incredible,” Kenma sighs, still staring at the ceiling. 

When Kuro goes to the bathroom to freshen up, Lev sits down next to Kenma on the sofa. “Are you upset at me?”

“No,” Kenma replies. He’s really not. Maybe if Kuro had gotten genuinely upset, then he’d have _that_ to deal with. But as long as Kenma isn’t made to tiptoe over cracks, he’s fine. 

Lev doesn’t say anything, but Kenma can _feel_ the force of the potential energy Lev had accumulated in the five seconds where he’d attempted to demonstrate self-control. “What is it?” Kenma asks, putting Lev out of his misery and hoping he doesn’t regret it.

“Does…” Lev pauses. “Does Kuroo-san seem different to you?”

Kenma widens his eyes. There’s no fucking way— unless. Their walls are thin. If Lev was awake during the night, and Kenma was the kind of person who sleep-talked. Which he doesn’t think he is, but then again, he didn’t think he was the kind of person to have sexual fantasies about his best friend of thirteen years either, so. 

Fortunately, the look on Lev’s face doesn’t seem quite that introspective so Kenma wills himself to calm down. “What do you mean?” 

“You know,” Lev says. “He’s less,” he raises two fingers to point towards his eyes. “Intense.”

Kenma furrows his eyebrows. “Kuro’s... Intense? Since when?” On the courts maybe, but most of Nekoma have established enough of an off-court relationship with Kuro to be able to draw a distinct line between Scheming Volleyball Captain Kuro, and Kuro who got their entire team involved in a water gun match with Fukurodani for no reason other than the fact he liked the noise Bokuto made when he squealed. 

“As in like… I used to feel like he was always thinking? Always looking at the bigger picture? Sort of like a more extroverted, less intense version of you?”

“ _I’m intense?_ ”

Lev continues. “Now he’s more carefree. Takes things as they go. Doesn’t look like he’s always plotting or weighing things in his head.”

“And you managed to make this extremely detailed conclusion from the total of one minute you’ve spent with him since he arrived?”

The skepticism flies right over Lev’s head and he puffs out his chest proudly. “I’m very observant.”

“ _You’re observant?_ ”

“Kenma-san, why do you always have to do that?”

“He’s playing hard to get Lev,” Kuro’s voice resonates from behind them. Lev jolts, and Kenma wants to bury himself into a hole. Kuro leans forward so his head pokes between them, arms crossed over the back of the couch. “By the way,” he adds. “The couple shoes you two have are _adorable_.” 

“They aren’t couple shoes, all ugg boots just look the same,” Kenma disputes, but is ignored in favour of Lev jumping up from the couch, remembering that he had a present for Kuro in his room. As he flails away to retrieve it, Kenma bends his neck back to look up. “Don’t get too excited, they’re going to be ugg boots.” 

“I would be disappointed if it were anything else,” Kuro says solemnly. Kenma gives him a small smile before grabbing his PSP and resuming his game. The backrest shifts behind him, and when he looks back, Kuro has his head propped up on one hand, and is staring at Kenma— and he hates that this word reminds him of Lev now— _intensely_.

“So,” Kuro says, moving forward so their eyes are leveled. “Do you agree with Lev? Do you think I’ve changed?” 

It’s not like Kenma hasn’t been playing spot-the-difference the entire time, but even though he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Kuro’s asking, he knows he doesn’t want to give him the answer. “No,” Kenma says. “Your hair’s a little longer but…”

Kuro hums, like he hadn’t been expecting any different. 

“Do you think I’ve changed?” Kenma finds himself wondering. 

It’s like Kuro wants to prove that he knows how many levels of denial propped up Kenma’s last answer. He reaches out to grab a stand of Kenma’s hair — back to black now, after Kenma realised his old pudding-do wasn’t inconspicuous anywhere but Nekoma — and wraps it around a finger. Kenma doesn’t take his eyes off Kuro. He just takes it all in. The contemplation on Kuro’s face as he tugs Kenma’s hair a little, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, before carefully tucking it back behind Kenma’s ear. 

“Your hair’s changed,” he says, smiling. He raps a knuckle lightly down Kenma’s head before leaving. 

 

 

 

The next morning, the alarm goes off seven hours earlier than Kenma wants it too. “Lev,” he whines into his pillow, rolling over to slam a leg against their shared wall. “Turn it off.” 

There’s the sound of Lev presumably _collapsing_ out of bed, and Kenma flops back onto his mattress. He’s close to falling sleep again when the door to his room opens, and Lev’s voice asks, “Kenma-san, can I take your car?” 

“No.” Kenma pulls the blanket up over his head. Why does sleep-deprived Lev insist on asking sleep-deprived Kenma such stupid questions? 

“I can’t make Kuroo-san walk with his,” Lev pitches his voice lower, “ _Condition_.” 

Kenma’s eyes snap open. “What?” 

“It’s tendonitis Lev, not the black plague,” Kuro’s voice interrupts. “Don’t worry about it, Yaku said he’d give me a ride to the clinic.”

Kenma fumbles around for his phone to check the time. Six-thirty am. Kuro has his physiotherapy appointment at seven. He groans and crawls out of bed, rubbing his eye as he grabs a pair of jeans off his bedside table. He pushes past Lev to get to the bathroom, but a large hand comes to grip his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Kenma grumbles and squints up at Kuro. 

“Hey, I said don’t worry about it,” Kuro says. “It’s too early.” 

Kenma stares at the hand on his shoulder. This was the same boy who used to wake Kenma up at 5am because he wanted to practice his out-dated Personal Time-Difference Attack, and needed his gold-star setter to be there to sleepily misdirect the balls at his face instead. This is weird, he’s too tired for this. He shrugs the hand off. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. 

He turns away, but Kuro’s arm shoots out to grab his elbow and tug him back again. “Hey,” Kuro says. Kenma narrows his eyes at him, but it doesn’t deter Kuro one bit and he grins. “You’re cute with bedhead.” 

Kenma frowns. “Don’t be stupid,” he repeats, pulling himself out of Kuro’s hold and making his way to the bathroom. 

 

 

 

Kuro pursuing volleyball professionally could have gone either way. He was in college-prep class, but the amount of time and effort he put into volleyball well into his third year was enough to let everyone know it wasn’t just a simple _hobby_ for him. The decision was finally made when he’d gotten a sports scholarship from the University of Tsukaba — an informal invitation to join one of the strongest collegiate volleyball teams in the country. 

Kenma was definitely not going to pursue volleyball after high school. Kuro had the ability to convince Kenma to do a lot of things he’d never consider doing of his own volition, but moving to Ibaraki for college — just to maybe catch Kuro between classes when he wasn’t busy studying or practicing — fell too outside the realm of practicality for Kenma to be comfortable. 

“This is it then huh,” Kenma had said during Kuro’s graduation. Yamamoto and Inuoka were crying beside him, the volleyball team standing in a line to say goodbye to their third years. 

Kuro smiled. He took off his graduation cap to place it on Kenma’s head.

“Not at all,” Kuro laughed. He stood back to address the entire team, arms out with an impish grin on his face. “You’re all gonna follow me there aren’t you, loyal minions?” 

Lev started protesting, ranting on about how he’d join an ever _better_ college volleyball team and become their Ace. Yaku was disbelieving that this coming from the same guy he had to spend four hours tutoring on weekends, just so he wouldn’t flunk his way out of the team. The drab sentimentality transformed into something more hopeful and united, the nine of them in a circle with Kenma in the middle, and he felt okay. He was surrounded by people, too loud and too invasive, and Kenma felt okay. 

Less than a year later, Kenma received an acceptance letter from the University of Tsukaba. He wasn’t seriously considering it, but the letter stayed in the middle of his desk, greeting him whenever he came home from practice, and was the last thing he saw before he turned the lights off before bed. Then, Kenma got a phone call from Kuroo telling him that he was transferring to an Osaka University to play with the Suntory Sunbirds, and the sealed envelope with Tsukaba’s emblem on it went in the trash.

 

 

 

Kenma’s sitting in the waiting room playing on his PSP while Kuro has his check up. He’s been struggling through the same level for the past two days, and he’s finally starting to make progress when the door to the doctor’s office opens. Kenma’s sprite is stabbed through the heart, and **”GAME OVER”** flashes in grave lettering just as Kuro bends over to peer at the screen. “Was this the same level you were playing yesterday?”

“You noticed?” Kenma says, pocketing his PSP and looking down at the fresh bandage around Kuro’s knee. “Did he tell you when you can take it off?” 

“Of course I noticed,” Kuro says, patting Kenma’s back and leading him out of the clinic. “I notice everything about you.” Kenma makes a vague sound of protest, but doesn’t see the point in arguing. 

Even in the suburbs the nine am Tokyo rush hour is something out of a disaster movie, and there’s always a three-lane build up waiting for Kenma on this particular road without fail. Usually the dense traffic doesn’t bother him _too much_ , a hefty fine and twenty phone calls to two different insurance companies have made sure that Kenma _knows_ playing video games while waiting for the congestion to ease up is not a good idea. But he’s learnt other ways to entertain himself. He finds predicting the flow of traffic, or just watching other people in their cars, to be a fairly good way to pass time, even if it doesn’t come with cheery music telling him _’Level Complete!’_

Kuro however, looks restless, and is transparently trying not to let it show. Kuro’s used to Kenma not talking and dealing with extended silence, but it’s also been a good four years since he’s lived in Tokyo with its fourteen million people and limited roads to accommodate them. The same way muscles become softer with disuse, so does patience. It makes sense, but a part of Kenma still finds it strange. Kuro used to be the kind of guy who looked like he could be in the middle of a gang war and just pull out a tanning chair and start sipping a pina colada. 

“You didn’t answer my question about your knee,” Kenma says. It’s been on his mind since they left the clinic, but he figured he’d just let Lev blurt out the question when they arrived home and avoid the burden of confrontation himself. He’s not really sure why he thought that’d be a good idea now, because the way Kuro’s fingers come to brush against the bandages is vulnerable in a way Kuro wouldn’t let many people see. 

“I don’t think it’s coming off,” Kuro answers, lifting the foot of his non-injured leg up to his seat.

Kenma frowns. “What does that mean?”

“At this point I’ve had it for so long and it hasn’t improved, so they’re pretty sure it’s torn. I’m getting an X-ray next week to make sure.” 

The car in front of Kenma moves forward, and Kenma takes his foot of the break to advance three centimetres before turning back to Kuro. “And then what?” 

“I’ll probably have to get surgery,” Kuro answers, turning on the radio. Some J-pop song that Kenma doesn’t know comes on, and Kuro starts humming to it. 

“You can still play volleyball after surgery?” Kenma asks, raising an eyebrow. Kuro’s singing along to the song now, even playing an accompanying beat on the dashboard. Kenma makes a sound of annoyance and reaches over to turn the volume knob all the way down. “I said, how can you still play after getting—” 

“Of course you can’t Kenma,” Kuro snaps. The car behind them honks and Kenma blinks, eyes wide. Kuro instantly looks regretful, and Kenma feels awful. His heart is thudding frantically in his chest, and he doesn’t think he’s felt so close to exploding inside of his skin since he was a kid. 

Kuro reaches a hand out to overlap Kenma’s on the steering wheel. “Hey, traffics moving,” he says softly. Kenma breathes in — studies the downturn of Kuro’s sharp eyes, feels Kuro’s thumb rub against his knuckles — and breathes out again. He looks back towards the road and slowly drives forward. 

Kuro doesn’t let go of his hand. 

 

 

 

Kenma first hears the news through one of the sports blogs on his RSS feed, and because the Universe really wants to rub it in his face, it feels like it’s following him through the internet. It says something about Kenma that even after high school the circles he’d found himself in meant the same articles and YouTube videos were making the rounds on both Facebook and Twitter. By the time he actually receives the call from Bokuto, all he can do when he picks up the phone is recite the last headline he’d read from memory: “Japan’s National Volleyball team’s newest middle blocker collapses on court during final set point.” There’s static on the other end before Bokuto replies with a dismal _“Yeah.”_

Bokuto tells him that the doctor’s diagnosis is patellar tendonitis, and with proper treatment it should be a simple road to recovery. He doesn’t say what Kenma already knows, that you only get an injury like that from over-strenuous practice and a healthy disregard for personal care. He finishes by passing the phone over to Akaashi, who warns Kenma that Kuro isn’t really picking up for anyone at the moment, and needs time to sulk it out. 

Kuro picks up on the second ring. “Kenma,” he drawls, amused and not at all sulky. Or maybe Kenma’s bar for sulking has been set too high after living with Lev for a year and a half. 

“Kuro,” Kenma says. “Is everything… okay?” 

There’s rustling on the other end, like Kuro’s lying back on his bed or something. Kenma frowns, and when Kuro speaks again, it’s with a tone that betrays nothing of the four years of sparse contact and distance between them. “Fine, fine,” he says, and then, “I missed your voice.” 

 

 

 

Kenma’s still upset about the incident in the car, but Kuro knows how to make him feel better. That is, by making Kenma sit on the floor in front of him while they’re watching TV and treat him like a footrest. Kuro’s foot is heavy and smells like a moldy fruit salad, but it’s the kind of fondly inconsiderate thing he’d to do Kenma back in school, and it eases up the anxiety in his chest a little bit. 

It’s all for naught though when Kuro gets a call in the afternoon. Kenma knows it’s bad news as soon as he hears, ”Bokuto, you crazy bastard. I thought you died without letting me kill you,”. The phone call lasts a good twenty minutes (”No you first.” ”No _you_ hang up first.”), and when Kuro starts with a faux-casual “So Bokuto”, Kenma shuts him down with a cold, “No.”

“You like Bokuto!” Kuro exclaims. 

“He’s okay.”

“You’re dating Lev,” Kuro points out. 

“For the love of— Even if I was and that was Lev calling, I’d still say no,” Kenma says. “In fact, the only way I’d be able to date Lev is if he never talked to me.” 

Kuro nods in understanding, patting Kenma’s head. “Just want him for his body, aye.” 

“Kuro.” 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Kuro waves a placating hand. “Look he just wants to meet up for drinks tonight, that’s all. C’mon Kenma, I haven’t seen him in ages.” 

“Then you go,” Kenma says, pulling the coffee table closer with his foot. He lifts Kuro’s leg off his shoulder, and places it carefully on the table so he can stand up. But before he can leave, Kuro grabs his arm and pulls him down next to him on the couch. Kenma lands with a soft ‘oof’, tucked right into Kuro’s side. 

“I want you to come with me,” Kuro says, draping an arm over Kenma. His eyes are on the TV, but there’s a self-satisfied grin lying in wait on his face. Kenma pushes himself away, scooting to the other side of the couch and pulling out his PSP. 

Kuro turns towards him with a thankful smile. “It’s just drinks,” he promises. 

Kenma curls towards the armrest, not looking away from his game. “It’s never just drinks with Bokuto.” 

 

 

 

Kenma _does_ like Bokuto. Sort of. Maybe. It’s more likely he’s been stockholm syndromed into liking Bokuto. Which isn’t necessarily an insult towards Bokuto’s personality, since thus far the only way Kenma’s managed to feel affection for any human has been through exposure therapy. With the notable exceptions of Shouyou and — he stares at the glass of beer that’s just been placed in front of him — Kuro. Kuro who is the reason Kenma is here, in this stuffy sports bar, watching Bokuto wave a stool at the TV screen that was currently airing the 2015 World Women’s Curling Championship. 

Kenma drowns the drink in one go. 

“Whoa,” Kuro says, sliding next to Kenma in the booth. “When did you become an alcoholic?”

Kenma scrunches his face. He hates getting drunk, and the idea of any of his inhibitions dulling fucking _terrified_ him. Unfortunately, he also genuinely loves the taste of beer. To address the problem, he had once spent an entire night locked in his room, surrounded by several six-packs and a camcorder. That night, he had successfully managed to gauge two things: 1) that thankfully, he had a fairly high alcohol tolerance which, 2) was for the best, because drunk Kenma has some weird aversion to clothes. Rest assured, the recorded footage had been destroyed. 

He tells Kuro this with the latter parts omitted. “No one genuinely likes the taste of alcohol,” Kuro scoffs. “They just get drunk enough to think they like the taste of alcohol.”

Kenma shrugs. “Well I do.” Then he tacks on, for no reason other than the fact Kuro’s been setting him on edge ever since he arrived at Tokyo, and Kenma wants to level the playing field, “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” 

He doesn’t get to hear Kuro’s reply because Bokuto suddenly throws himself down on the other side of Kenma, which consequently pushes Kenma closer to Kuro, who then takes the opportunity to move his hand down to Kenma’s lower back. “I’m really glad you came tonight,” Bokuto slurs. “I love your personality.” 

“Thanks,” Kenma says, the last of his insides finally shriveling up. “You have a personality too.” Bokuto’s so close that Kenma can feel his breath sticky and cloying against his neck. He tries to shift back, until he realises that if he moves any closer to Kuro, he’s basically going to be sitting on his lap. Bokuto is either a really inconvenient drunk, or the best wingman in existence. If he asked Kuro, he’d probably say both. 

“I want to leave,” Kenma decides, slouching in his ill-fated seat. “Now.” 

“What!” Bokuto yelps. “But it’s only,” he fumbles with his phone, squinting at the digital clock, “Ten degrees celsius!” 

Kenma looks at Kuro, who’s laughing into his drink. “Move over,” he demands, “I’m leaving. You can stay and I’ll come pick you up later.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Kuro says, sliding out of the booth and grabbing Kenma’s jacket for him from the table, Kenma can’t be bothered fighting against the act of chivalry so he let’s Kuro help put it on him. 

Kuro slaps Bokuto’s back. “Hey we’re leaving, you got money for a taxi?” Bokuto says he does, but just in case, Kuro slips in eight hundred yen to the bartender and tells him to keep an eye on the drunk with white hair. 

It’s only been a day, but Kenma feels like it’s been ten years since the incident in the car this morning. Kuro is looking out the window, not absent-mindedly, but like he’s trying memorise as much of the landscape as he can before Kenma drives past it. Is four years really long enough for a city you used to know like the back of your hand, to feel so new? Kenma doesn’t think so. But then the light from one of the street lamps outside cuts across Kuro’s face in a way that makes his eyes glint, and suddenly, Kenma isn’t too sure. 

They pull into the parking garage and Kenma turns the ignition off. Neither of them get out of the car. 

Kenma speaks first. “You…” The words are stuck behind his teeth, and he presses his lips together to keep them in. But the truth they form suddenly feels realer, bigger, like the longer he doesn’t let it out, the larger it’ll grow and eventually suffocate him. Maybe it’ll be easier if he just treats it as fact. He’s Kozume Kenma. He lives in Tokyo. Kuroo’s in Tokyo. Kuroo’s with him. The grass is green. The sky is blue— 

“I love you,” Kuro says. 

Kenma shifts closer against the door. “Since when? You didn’t in high school.” 

Kuro makes a sound of agreement. “Right. Or maybe I didn’t know it then?” 

Why is this so easy for Kuro? Kenma knows he’s more awkward and anxious than the average person, but he’s pretty damn sure this situation would be weird for anyone. Kuro’s playing with the Hello Kitty air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror (thanks Lev) like they’re talking about something as mundane as grocery shopping. 

“What are you going to do since you can’t play volleyball?” Kenma asks, changing the subject. 

This, of all things, finally makes Kuro’s face harden, the easy and unconcerned air condensing into something heavier that Kenma can’t see through. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I can finish my undergraduate degree, or I can go into coaching.” 

“Are you going to stay in Osaka or move somewhere else?”

“I don’t know.” Kuro shrugs. “Do you like me, by the way?” 

Kenma grimaces. “Am I just a distraction or something? So you don’t have to think about the ripped tendon in your knee.” 

“Of course not!” Kuroo says, affronted. “What, would you be happier if I just spent all day moping over something I can’t help? You know, I’m pretty devastated. So I’m doing you a favour, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.” 

Kenma knows Kuro doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just like when he’d take the box of volleyball equipment off Kenma after practice, because Kenma was too short to reach the top shelf. Kenma is lacking in both height and empathy, but right now he’s plentiful in his chagrin. “Do you think I can handle what you’re doing to me instead?” he bites back. 

“I’m sorry,” Kuro says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’ll stop, I didn’t think it’d upset you so much. In all honesty I thought...”

“You thought what?” Kenma urges. 

Kuro looks at him with no pretences. His smile forlorn, the droop of his eyes lazy and tired and fond. “Honestly, I thought you liked me too.” 

“I do like you,” Kenma says. “But you don’t _like_ me, you— It doesn’t make sense. I’ve barely seen you in the last four years, and you realise this at the same time you get a serious injury.” 

“You find that strange?” Kuro asks, raising an eyebrow. Kenma nods. “Really? Having my dreams come crashing down around me and realising I was in love with my best friend came pretty hand in hand.”

Kenma doesn’t know how to reply to that. He cares about Kuro, he thinks he’s attracted to Kuro and— Kuro gets up from his seat, bending over the gear shift so he’s basically looming over Kenma— scratch that, he’s definitely attracted to Kuro. He tilts his head up unthinkingly, and when he looks up at Kuro with big eyes, Kuro’s hand slips from the dashboard, sending his bad knee knocking into the glove compartment. Kuro winces, gritting his teeth against the pain, and that’s when it hits Kenma that this isn’t a dream. 

Kenma opens the door, releasing whatever moment they’d created inside of the small space between them. “No,” he says, with a small shake of his head. “You’re my best friend.” 

Kuro’s face crumples, and Kenma isn’t sure if it’s from the injury or not. “Got it,” he says, bending forward to massage his knee so Kenma can’t see his face. “Lev’s a lucky guy.” 

Kenma huffs out a disbelieving breath and looks away. 

 

 

 

Kenma stands in the middle of the gymnasium holding a volleyball. 

There shouldn’t be anyone left at school at this time of the night, not students, definitely not alumni. He doesn’t know why he came here. Sure, his best memories from high school were centred around his time at the volleyball club, but his affinity for the actual sport itself wasn’t particularly strong. After all, it could’ve been basketball that Kuro happened to watch on TV that Saturday morning, and thought was _so cool_ that he should interrupt Kenma while he was playing against a Final Boss, and force him to take up this new, cool sport with him. Then again, Kenma remembers the Nekoma basketball team walking down the halls after practice. He’s pretty sure the shortest one was around Kuro’s height. Nevermind. If Kuro had been into basketball, he probably would’ve gone to find a new, taller best friend. What a shitty alternate reality. No volleyball. No Kuro. Just Kenma and his video games. 

He throws the volleyball up in the air, and it feels natural, like singing along to a nursery rhyme from his childhood. It goes high, higher than Kenma knew he could toss, and falls just short of hitting the ceiling. Kenma reaches his hands out to catch it again, but suddenly there’s another hand above him, obscuring his line of vision, and catching the ball cleanly.

Kenma turns around, and there behind him, stands Kuro in his red and black Sunbirds uniform. It doesn’t feel surprising, even though it should. “Did you come here all the way from Osaka?” Kenma asks, taking a step back. 

Kuro spins the volleyball between his hands. There’s a #15 on shirt, a far cry from when he was Nekoma’s #1. 

“Maybe,” Kuro says, eyes bright. “Why do you sound so disappointed?” 

“You’re going to leave again,” Kenma answers. He tries to snatch the volleyball away from Kuro, but Kuro just tosses it behind him. It goes bouncing on the gym floor. The sound of it rolling away the only other thing Kenma’s aware of as Kuro scrutinizes him with sharp eyes. Kuro tips Kenma’s chin up gently, leans forward so the next words skate across Kenma’s lips. “I didn’t know you cared so much Kenma.” 

“Of course I care about you,” Kenma says, hands coming up to grab the side of Kuro’s uniform. “Without you, I’m as good as lonely.” 

Kuro brushes his mouth against Kenma’s cheek. “You know that’s not true,” he whispers. “Wake up.” 

 

 

 

Kuro is gone when Kenma wakes up the next day. 

It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. Kenma is brushing his teeth in the bathroom, groggy after tossing and turning the entire night, and sees the note stuck on the soap dispenser. Kenma’s not surprised. Why would Kuro stick around after last night and put them both through excruciating awkwardness. 

Not that Lev would know that. 

“KUROO-SAN IS GONE!” Lev screeches, sliding into the living room in nothing but his boxers. Kenma looks up from his PSP just to frown at Lev, before turning his attention back to the screen. 

Lev sits next to him on the sofa. He takes in a deep breath and bellows, “KUROO-SAN IS GO—”

Kenma clicks his tongue. “I know Lev,” he says, irritated. “He’s not gone, he’s just staying at Yaku’s for the rest of his trip.” 

“Oh,” Lev says blankly. “Why?” 

Kenma make a noncommittal noise in response. He’s settled back into comfortably ignoring Lev again, until the latter grabs the PSP out of his hands and holds it up in the air. 

“Hey!” Kenma says, sitting upright. He tries to take his PSP back, but Lev is a lot more flexible, and has better reflexes on top of it. He’d continued to play on the college’s volleyball team after high school, while Kenma just played video games and waited for his muscles to atrophy. 

“Nuh-uh,” Lev taunts. “Kenma-san, you’re keeping something from me.”

Kenma blows out a thin strand of air and crosses his arms, turning away. “I keep everything from you.”

“True,” Lev concedes. “But this is making you sad.”

“It’s not a big deal…” he begins to say, but trails off at the earnestness on Lev’s face. He sighs. Lev’s annoying but he’d given Kenma a home, and those ugg boots he’d bought him cost around twenty four thousand yen, Kenma knows from when he’d tried to sell them online. “We… had a fight,” he confesses.

Lev’s eyes grow large. He grabs a pillow from behind him, and holds it close to his chest. “A _fight_ ,” he emphasises. “About what?”

Kenma groans, he really doesn’t want to do this. But Lev looks so concerned and interested. Apparently there’s nothing Kenma won’t go soft towards after a long period of time, he really needs to reevaluate his standards. “About… feelings… and _gah_.” He can’t do this. He gets up to walk towards the kitchen, suddenly hungry, but when he opens the fridge it’s just stocked with spinach and jars of baby food. Kenma probably deserves this.

“Feelings?” Lev says into his ear, and Kenma flinches. 

“Why do you not make noise when I need you to?” he scowls. 

“Feelings huh,” Lev rubs his chin, deep in thought. “You mean he told you he didn’t return your feelings?” 

“ _No_ ,” Kenma says, shutting the fridge door. “I didn’t return his feelings.” 

“What?” Lev sounds so dumbfounded, like the prospect is so impossible to him, that it’s embarrassing. “But you do? So what’s the problem?” 

“Do I?” Kenma asks, mostly to himself. 

“Of course you do,” Lev answers. “Why wouldn’t you? He’s your best friend, and I heard you moaning his name in your sleep the night before he arri—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Kenma pleads, closing his eyes. “I’m moving out next month.” 

“Okay.”

“Don’t try and stop me.” 

“I won’t,” Lev says. He’d seen Kenma’s old dorm when he’d helped him move out, he knows Kenma’s not going anywhere. “Really though, what happened? Did he turn you down? You don’t have to be ashamed. Kuroo-san is a ten, you’re about an eight when you smile. Even _I_ , a solid nine and a half, wouldn’t be in Kuroo’s league.” 

“You’re just saying numbers that mean nothing to me,” Kenma mumbles, suddenly tired. “Nothing happened. He’s my best friend. I can’t ruin something like that.” 

“Uh huh,” Lev nods, “I still don’t see the problem. Just because he’s your best friend it means you can’t be into him? If anything, it’s _because_ he’s your best friend that you should go for it.” Then he adds, in a conspiratorial whisper, “You’re a hard person to get close to Kenma-san. Things change, why not let this change for the better?” 

That’s true. Four years ago Kuro was his best friend, four years later and Kenma’s talking about his _feelings_ for Kuro with Haiba Lev in their shared kitchen. It wouldn’t be the most shocking relationship development of his life. 

“So what’s stopping you?” Lev asks. 

Kenma looks down at his hands, remembers the way they felt with Kuro’s overlapping them, and _really_ thinks about it.

 

 

 

“Hey, Kuroo’s expecting you,” Yaku says when he answers the door. At Kenma’s dubious look he amends, “Okay, he’s in his room staring at an old picture of you two — don’t tell him I told you that — but _I_ was expecting you.” 

Kenma smiles, small but fond. “Where is he?”

Before Kenma met Kuro, he had been well and truly alone. No friends, nothing to feel proud or care about except for the new games he’d get during Christmas and Birthdays. Kuro wasn’t his knight in shining armour or anything, definitely didn’t sweep Kenma off his feet. But he was there, present and steady, and that meant more than anything to an anxious kid who was scared of what the world would think of him. When Kuro left for four years, and contact between them fell into short messages and the occasional Skype call, Kenma hadn’t blamed him. Kuro was busy balancing practicing and studies, and even the week late replies he’d received were probably the best Kuro could give him. Kenma had accepted it then, that Kuro wasn’t here with him in the same capacity that he used to be, and that he was alone again. 

Except he wasn’t, really. Kenma thought he was, but he never felt it. How could he have felt it, when he had Yamamoto sending him snaps of hot girls in his class every day, asking Kenma to evaluate his chances with them. When Shouyou came all the way from Miyagi to Tokyo just so he could be there at Kenma’s graduation ceremony, that even Kuro had missed because he had a game on the same day. When Kenma was living with Haiba Lev, who seemed persistent in liking Kenma no matter how many unimpressed stares were sent his way. 

Kenma doesn’t knock before entering the guest room with Kuro in it. “I’m fine Yaku, just give me a few more minutes to—”

“Is it the photo of us at Nationals?” Kenma asks. Kuro jolts up from the bed, the photo he was holding fluttering it’s way to the floor. “It is. I like that photo too.” 

“I like the person in the photo more,” Kuro says, and Kenma’s heart constricts. “What are you doing here?”

Kenma shuffles uncomfortably on his feet. Kuro notices and pats the space next to him on the bed, but Kenma stays rooted in his spot. “That night,” he starts. “You said getting your injury and realising you were in love with me came hand in hand.” Kenma stops, waiting for affirmation. When Kuro nods, he continues, “What did you mean?”

Kuro pushes himself further up the bed, leaning against the wall. “When I felt the pain shoot up my leg,” he begins. “And I embarrassed myself during my first game with the National Volleyball Team, the first thing I did was think of you.”

He looks at Kenma intently, like he's asking for permission to continue. Kenma, against all his instincts, nods.

“Later on, when I realised I probably wasn’t going to be able to play volleyball anymore, I thought of where else I would want to be. The answer was always you. I’d been away from you for so long, that when you called me and I heard your voice, I knew that if I couldn’t have volleyball, the only thing I wanted was to be as close to you as possible. Of course, even if I hadn’t fucked up my career, I always planned on moving back here once I got the chance. But when I had nothing else, I think that’s when I realised that, eventually everything would be okay if I could have you.” 

Kenma swallows and looks down at the floor. He had lied when he’d said he’d never felt lonely in those four years. Definitely not in the way he thought he would, but it was there, wedged in right next to his heart. And when he’d watch Kuro’s matches online, or see photos of him at press-conferences, his heart would beat a little faster, and the loneliness would thump firmly against his chest. 

Kenma walks over to the bed, and instead of sitting down next Kuro, he reminds himself that this is a guy who only coped with a career ending injury because he loved Kenma so much, and settles himself down on Kuro’s lap instead. 

Kuro startles. He stays frozen for a few seconds before shaking his head and placing his hands on Kenma’s waist. Kenma buries his head into Kuro’s neck, pressing a soft closed kiss against his collarbone. 

“I want to have you too,” he says. 

Kuro pushes Kenma back to look at him. His arms are wrapped tightly around Kenma’s middle, and Kenma reaches a hand out to push Kuro’s hair back so his eyes are visible. Lev was right, Kuro really is a ten. 

“Yeah?” Kuro says, a hand coming up to card through Kenma’s hair. “You’re in love with me too?”

Kenma smirks. “A little,” he says. Before Kuro can whine about it, Kenma moves quickly to kiss him on the mouth. It’s meant to be short and chaste, but Kuro lets himself fall backwards and then Kenma’s straddling him on the bed, kissing him open mouthed and heated. They separate, and Kenma can’t look at Kuro’s flushed face for more than a second before he’s shutting his eyes and resting their foreheads together. 

“A lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY (LATE) BIRTHDAY MY DEAR REI!!! ♥♥♥ haha, surprise? are you surprised? i'm sorry for being so obnoxiously anti-haikyuu in the past month, i'm sure you were really annoyed at me, but i really wanted this to be a surprise. you deserve something that's not just a derivative of the fic i always write (anime remix), but please accept my humble offering u___u i had lots of fun going through your anime blog and laughing at your tags on all the porny fanart you reblogged, by the way. just kidding*
> 
> *i'm not kidding**
> 
> **still not kidding, but ily heaps ♥ thank you for everything you've done for me, and for putting up with me all this time.


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